


Ordinary People

by Gwyn_Paige



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Marriage, Marriage Proposal, Romance, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), TMA Valentine's Exchange 2021 (The Magnus Archives), Trans Martin Blackwood, Valentine's Day, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 09:21:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29433801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwyn_Paige/pseuds/Gwyn_Paige
Summary: On a cold winter's day in the safehouse, Jon and Martin decide to get married.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 20
Kudos: 112
Collections: TMA Valentine's Exchange 2021





	Ordinary People

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bare1yThere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bare1yThere/gifts).



> This was written for [Bare1ythere](https://bare1ythere.tumblr.com/) over on Tumblr for the 2021 TMA Valentine's Exchange! He asked for safehouse Jonmartin, proposal/wedding, and winter-time activities, so I put them all together!
> 
> Technically, this is a slight AU where the safehouse period extends into February. Timelines? We don't know her.
> 
> I hope you enjoy, Ben!! Happy Valentine's! :)

The axe had grown heavy in Martin’s tired grip, but the momentum of his swing carried it up, over, and down onto the log in front of him, halving it with a satisfying _chunk_. Leaning the axe up against the stump, he picked up the two halves and tossed them onto the growing pile off to his left. To his right sat the slowly shrinking pile of logs, dusted with the powdery white snow that had been falling lazily over the Highlands all afternoon.

Martin stretched his arms up in the air, cricked his neck from side to side, and twisted his hips until some of the tension left his back. He regarded the pile of chopped wood, which he’d still have to carry into the cabin, and went to pull the tarp back over the unchopped logs. That was plenty for one day, he decided. He and Jon only went through about half a log a day, so they’d be alright for another fortnight or so.

Hefting an armful of wood, Martin struggled for a moment with the cabin’s front door, which creaked heavily as he pushed it open. Once inside, the warmth hit Martin like a bus; he hadn’t realized how cold he’d been. He could feel beads of sweat on his brow from all the exertion, but it apparently hadn’t served to warm him up at all.

He stacked the wood on the empty rack by the fireplace to dry out, and, seeing movement in his periphery, turned towards the sofa that sat opposite. It was Jon, naturally, wrapped up to his nose in two layers of blankets. Jon was lazily following him with his gaze, watching as Martin went back and forth with each armful of wood, until there was nothing left to bring inside.

When Martin was done he carefully shut and locked the door, and lingered at the threshold as he removed his gloves and boots and shook himself out of his heavy winter coat. When he looked back over at the sofa, Jon was still staring, his expression hidden under the blankets. Jon had probably been watching him through the window since he’d started chopping wood, Martin thought, with some measure of self-satisfaction. Jon didn’t often say so aloud, but Martin knew he found him attractive, and it was nice to have a reminder of it now and again.

Feeling bold, he made a show of casually rolling up the sleeve of his fisherman’s sweater and flexing his bicep, flashing a grin at Jon. Jon’s eyes widened a fraction, and then disappeared back into the blankets with the rest of him. Martin laughed aloud.

“I thought you liked ogling me,” Martin said lightly, making his way over to the sofa and sitting down, heavily, next to the Jon-shaped pile of blankets.

“Can you blame me,” came the muffled reply. Jon unwrapped himself a bit, sticking his head out to grin at him. “I had a moment of weakness. It won’t happen again.”

“Aw,” Martin said, pouting. “You sure? Not even if I—” This time he flexed both arms, puffing out his chest in a parody of a bodybuilder, which made Jon laugh.

“Yes, alright,” Jon said, “apparently I can’t resist your charms.”

“Guess not,” Martin said, happily. He was staring at Jon in turn, appreciatively mapping the curve of his thick, dark brows, and reaching out a hand, he traced the line of one with his thumb, gently.

Jon’s eyes closed reflexively, his expression pinched, until Martin’s finger moved away. “Your hands are cold,” Jon said, matter-of-factly. He reached out and brought Martin’s chafed, red hands close to his face, took a deep breath, and breathed on them warmly. It took several breaths to cover the expanse of them, first the fingertips and then the palms, and Martin sat patiently, watching Jon’s eyes where they were narrowed in concentration. He was always so thorough, his Jon.

Since the Lonely, Martin ran cold more often than not, even in the warmer months. He’d never worn socks to bed before, but now he always did, for fear of touching his freezing feet to Jon’s and waking him in the middle of the night. Jon, as far as he could recall, had never brought this up directly; he simply let Martin borrow his body heat as needed.

“There,” said Jon at last, giving his hands one last squeeze, pressing his thumbs gently into the divots of Martin’s palms, before letting them go.

“Thanks,” Martin said, and put his newly-warmed hands to good use by cupping Jon’s face between them and kissing his forehead, soundly. Jon closed his eyes and made a small, contented humming noise, and when Martin leaned back Jon followed, crawling into his lap, situating himself across Martin’s broad thighs.

Martin had taken off his binder to go chop wood, so there was no resistance when Jon curled up close and leaned his head on Martin’s chest. Even despite Martin’s lack of body heat, Jon always leaned up against him as though he’d been trekking through a wasteland and Martin was the only soft thing for miles. Slinging an arm across his back, Martin could feel Jon’s tension drain away, escaping with an inaudible sigh.

“Thank you,” Jon murmured, his voice muffled by Martin’s sweater. “For the firewood. I hate to always pin it on you, but . . .”

Martin huffed a laugh. “Yeah.” It was rather difficult, after all, to chop wood when you could barely lift an axe. “I don’t mind it, actually. Bracing, you know. And it is really good for the arms.”

“Hm?”

“Yeah. Compared to the kind of exercise you get in London, anyway.”

“Ah, yes. Running to catch the train, running to work, running back to catch the train again.” Jon’s voice vibrated through Martin’s chest as he spoke, warming it. “The thrills of city life.”

“Don’t forget running up the stairs when the lift in your building’s out of order again.”

“Oh, how could I forget!” Jon said, theatrically, and Martin laughed.

“Thank _goodness_ we decided to trade in the hustle and bustle for a simple life in the countryside,” Martin said broadly.

“Best decision we ever made.”

For a moment, Martin allowed himself to live in the fantasy that they’d had any say in the matter at all. That they’d gotten sick of London and cast aside all their material possessions, and driven up here themselves, optimistic and excited by the prospect of a fresh start. That the house they were sitting in now was a charming country cottage, instead of a badly aging wood cabin with a roof that leaked and unidentifiable stains in the basement. That this was, in fact, some sort of honeymoon, instead of . . . whatever it actually was. Just two desperate people trying to keep warm, Martin supposed.

“I do like it here, though,” Jon was saying. His eyes were closed again. “It’s quiet.”

“Mm. And pretty,” Martin said, staring out the window at the trees and hills, so thoroughly covered in snow that they almost blended in with the slate-grey sky. The cabin was up near the top of a hill, and afforded a view far down into the village, where Martin could just about make out the golden glow of shops and houses, penetrating the white blankness. It was only late afternoon, but already, beyond the thick, low clouds, the tiny winter sun was beginning to set, and the lights in the village were being switched on.

Other people, Martin thought. How about that. Ordinary people, with busy lives, doing everyday things. What a novelty. What a phenomenon.

“We could stay here,” Martin said. His voice sounded too loud in his own ears.

Jon stirred against his chest and lifted his head, staring up at him with his brow pinched. “Well, yes,” he said. “We _are_ staying here. We have to.”

“No, I mean—like, in the Highlands.” Martin shook his head. “Or wherever. Just . . . when this is over. We don’t have to go back to London.”

“I . . .” Jon thought for a moment. “I guess not. I—I hadn’t really thought about it, to be honest.”

“Just . . . I thought . . . I dunno,” Martin said, suddenly self-conscious. He looked down at Jon’s left hand, which was resting against Martin’s arm. Jon kept his fingernails short and tidy, but the remains of months-old black polish were stuck stubbornly to a couple of them. “It’s just been really nice here, just the two of us, and . . . well. We might get sick of each other yet.” He took a breath. “But once we have a choice in the matter, I’d like to stay somewhere like this, somewhere quiet. With you.”

Jon blinked up at him.

“I know, I know,” Martin said quickly, with a laugh, “it sounds like . . . like a marriage proposal, or something.”

“A bit, yes,” Jon said. His tone was light, but there was an edge, somewhere in his voice.

Martin sat there for a moment, thinking, and staring at Jon’s nail polish.

And then Martin said, “What if we did, though?”

Jon’s eyes narrowed again, and he sat up, sliding off of Martin’s lap and back onto the sofa, looking puzzled. “What if we did . . . what?”

“Get married.”

Jon stared at him. “What, to—to each other?”

“No, Jon, to the mailman. Of course, yes, who else would I marry?”

“I—well—I—” Jon’s eyes had gone wide, with fear or excitement or just confusion, Martin couldn’t tell.

Either way, he didn’t want Jon to panic. “I’m only joking,” he said quickly, with a smile, but he didn’t feel it. The idea had lodged itself in his head now, and he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

It was absurd, of course. They’d only been together for—he counted in his head—four months. Almost five, he realized. Not nearly long enough for two people to know each other well enough to be married. Though they’d known each other for much longer than that, hadn’t they? And they were already living together, which seemed to be going well, despite their precarious situation. Jon loved him. He loved Jon. Martin couldn’t think of any other reason not to get married.

“You . . . you’re joking,” Jon said, but he was still staring at Martin, eyes darting back and forth over his face, as though he were searching for something.

“Yeah,” said Martin, less convincingly. He stared back at Jon. “Yeah, of course, only joking.”

“Right,” Jon said, slowly. “Of course.”

“Right.”

“Yes.”

Neither of them looked away.

“We could, though,” Jon said, after a moment.

“We _could_ ,” Martin said.

“There’s—there’s nothing stopping us, really.” Jon was leaning towards Martin now, an open, slightly eager look on his face. “I-If we wanted to.”

“No, I—I guess there isn’t,” Martin said softly. Jon’s eyes were very dark and very lovely, and very close to his, now.

“D-Do you . . . I mean . . .” Jon stopped, throat bobbing, and started over. “Would you? Want to marry me?”

Martin opened his mouth to answer, but he found that somehow, the breath had left his lungs. He managed to gasp out a hoarse “Yeah,” and then, louder, as he regained his breath, “Yes, yes, I would— _yes_.”

Jon looked, for a moment, as though he were about to either start singing or fall right off of the sofa. He seemed to oscillate between the two for a moment, and then settled on leaning into Martin’s space, taking both his hands, the pads of his fingers resting on Martin’s wrists. “Really?” he said, sounding out of breath himself.

Why are you _surprised_ , Martin wanted to ask him, but instead he took hold of Jon’s hands and repeated, “Yes.”

“You— _really_?”

“Yes!” Laughter burst out of him. “D’you believe me yet?” Martin would keep saying it all day if he had to.

Jon still seemed rather dizzy as he stared at him. “I believe you,” he said softly. Then he leaned forward, suddenly, and pressed his lips to Martin’s cheek. He kept his head there, tucked into the crook of Martin’s neck, pressing himself up against Martin’s side, saying, “I—I didn’t think you’d actually say yes. But I mean it. Let’s—this week. We shouldn’t wait too long. We’ll go into town this week, and sign up for a license— _oof_.”

Jon was interrupted as Martin wrapped his arms around him, squeezing him tightly in a bear hug. Jon melted into his arms, pressing himself even closer into the softness of Martin’s chest and belly. They remained like that for a still and quiet minute, before Jon shifted in Martin’s grip and he let go, letting Jon sit back a bit, though he stayed in Martin’s lap.

“This week, huh,” Martin said quietly, running his thumbs over Jon’s nails. “You move pretty fast there, Sims.”

“I-I don’t want to lose any more time,” Jon said quickly, and then, seeing the fond expression on Martin’s face, pursed his lips. “Well if you’re going to make fun of me, maybe I won’t marry you after all.”

“Oh, jilted before I’ve even reached the altar.”

“You keep that up, you will be.” Jon looked at him wryly for a moment, until his brow furrowed. “We’ll have to get suits, won’t we. A-And rings. And . . . flowers? Maybe? I-I’ve never been to a wedding, I’ve no idea—”

“Hey,” Martin said, squeezing Jon’s hands. “It’s gonna be fine. We don’t have to have flowers, or suits, or anything like that. I don’t think we even need rings.”

“R-Right. Of course,” Jon said, softer. He glanced downwards at his hands enclosed in Martin’s. “I . . . I think I would like a ring, though.”

“Yeah,” said Martin. He stared down at his own hand, imagining it. “Me too.”

* * *

“Isn’t this . . . bad luck?”

“Hm?” Martin hummed distractedly. He was staring into the tiny bathroom mirror, concentrating heavily on shaving just so around his wispy mustache, and wasn’t quite paying attention as Jon’s voice drifted in, anxiously, from the bedroom.

“Seeing each other before the wedding,” came Jon’s voice again. “That’s supposed to be bad luck.”

Martin considered this for a moment, and decided it would be best not to bring up the fact that, historically, their luck had been rather abysmal, wedding or no. “Well,” he said instead, “it’d be sort of hard to avoid seeing each other, since we’ll be going to the registrar’s together.”

Jon seemed not to have heard. “And isn’t it bad luck to wear the rings before the ceremony?”

“I . . . don’t think that’s a thing, Jon.”

“It feels like it _should_ be.”

Martin, picking his battles, finally put down the razor and wiped his face, and opened the door to the bedroom. Jon was sitting on the edge of the bed, his suit buttoned but his tie undone, and his jacket and shoes were still sitting where he’d put them an hour ago. His hair was unbrushed, and he had a look about him that one might call “catastrophizing.” He was staring down at the gold band on his ring finger, which matched the one on Martin’s.

About two weeks ago now, they’d gone into town to register for a marriage license and schedule the ceremony at the registrar’s office. Afterwards, feeling giddy and impatient, they’d gone on a bit of a spree, buying rings and suits as conveniently as they could way out in the countryside. (Money, as it turned out, was no object, thanks to Peter Lukas’s still-uncancelled credit card.)

Still, Martin knew as well as Jon did that the situation was less than ideal; they didn’t have proper tuxedos, or engraved rings, or a wedding venue, or friends to invite. They were going to trudge through the snow in the nicest shoes they had, go to a stuffy room in a stuffy building with a stuffy officiator, and under their bored, uncomfortable stare, they would say their vows as meaningfully as they could, and then they would sign a certificate. And that, for all intents and purposes, would be their wedding.

No, it wasn’t ideal. But whenever Martin happened to run his finger across his new ring, or remembered the fact that, in a few short hours from now, Jon would be his husband, his whole body would buzz with nervous excitement, his heart beating fast and warm in his chest. The particulars of it, Martin figured, didn’t matter, so long as they ended up together, where they were supposed to be.

Martin slowly approached the bed, and sat back against it, on the floor next to Jon’s feet. He took Jon’s ringed hand, gently, but Jon didn’t react.

“I know what you’re doing, you know,” Martin said, after a moment. His voice was kind, but Jon’s head jerked up, his expression worried.

Martin went on. “You’re trying to convince yourself—and me—that this is a bad idea.”

Jon’s mouth opened in protest, but Martin bent to kiss his hand before he could say anything. His mouth closed again, his cheeks darkening.

“You’re giving us easy ways out,” Martin continued. “Excuses. Reasons not to go through with it. But I know you pretty well by now, Jon Sims, and I think you still wanna do this.”

“But—” Jon cut in, and, seeing that Martin wasn’t going to interrupt again, he went on, “But, do you . . . I mean, d-do _you_ still want to . . .”

He left the question hanging in the fire-warmed air, as though the final two words were somehow unutterable. And there was the buzzing feeling again, in Martin’s hands and toes and chest, and, god, he was going to _marry_ this man, if they had to do it in a courthouse or a dingy basement or out in the frozen tundra somewhere.

“Yes,” Martin said, trying to imbue the small word with all the sincerity he felt. “Of course I still want to marry you.” He reached up to tug gently on Jon’s lapel. “Especially when you’re all done up like this. Handsome.”

Jon’s eyes went wide, his complexion darkening even further. “O-Oh. Um. Well, that’s—ah, good, then. Yes. A-And, um, thank you.” He looked Martin up and down. “You look handsome, too.”

Martin, who was only wearing a binder and dress pants, gave him a look. “Alright, let me get dressed, and _then_ you can pay me token compliments.”

“Token?” Jon said, mock-offended. “I meant that sincerely—!”

Half an hour later, when Martin emerged from the bathroom a second time, Jon took a moment or two to be speechless, and then tugged Martin down by his tie to kiss him as though they were tying the knot right then and there.

* * *

Snow caked their dress shoes and soaked into their socks as they made their way down the icy steps of the village municipal building, but neither of them noticed or cared. They were too busy passing the marriage certificate back and forth, both trying to get a good look at the thing before the other stole it back.

“God, it looks so _official_ ,” Martin marveled, holding it up to the cold sunlight.

“It _is_ official,” said Jon, tugging it out of his hands.

“It’s got a gold seal, look.”

“And our _names_.”

“ _Both_ of them.”

“Oh, good Lord,” Jon said, pointing at his signature, “look, it’s all shaky, it’s practically chicken scratch—”

Martin grabbed it back. “That’s what happens, Mr. Blackwood, when you get all emotional during the vows.”

Jon, for the moment, did not try to regain his grip on the certificate, and grabbed Martin’s arm instead. “What did you call me.” His voice was very quietly thrilled.

Martin grinned at him. He would be lying if he said he hadn’t hoped Jon would notice. “Mr. Jon Blackwood,” he said again, like he was savoring it.

Jon pressed his side against Martin’s as they walked. “We didn’t change our surnames,” he said, in a tone which indicated that he didn’t care in the slightest.

“Try mine,” Martin said.

Jon gave a little tight-lipped smile that Martin knew meant he was really pleased. “Mr. Martin Sims.”

It didn’t quite roll off the tongue the way Jon’s name did, but, god, Martin _liked_ it. And Jon looked like he was a sewing kit away from stitching the name onto a sofa pillow.

“Christ,” Martin said, as they walked rather aimlessly down the village’s main street, their gloved hands clasped tightly together. “We’re married.”

“Imagine that,” said Jon, faintly.

“Yeah. _Us_ , married.”

“To each other.”

“Guess you’re stuck with me now, Blackwood,” Martin said teasingly.

“Mm,” Jon hummed, his eyes bright as he stared up at Martin. “Yeah. I am.”

The village was sleepy that mid-morning, its palette as grey and white as ever, with the occasional dark-coated figure ambling by. Snow was falling gently, and it was all rather picturesque, like an old black-and-white photo. Somewhere along the main street, a window display broke through the grey with a bright pink glow, and as they passed, Martin stole a glance inside.

“Huh,” Martin said, and then, after a moment, began to laugh uproariously.

“What, what?” said Jon, craning his neck to look behind him at whatever Martin had seen.

Martin had to take a moment to regain his breath. Wiping a tear from his eye, he said, “Jon, did you schedule our wedding for this day, in particular, on purpose?”

“. . . No. It was just the earliest booking I could get.” Jon glanced at him worriedly. “Why?”

“Because, Mr. Blackwood, I just realized that we’ve somehow managed to get married on Valentine’s Day.”

Jon seemed to consider this for a moment, staring straight ahead as they walked. Then he burst into shaking, nearly silent laughter.

“ _That’s_ why the registrar kept telling us we had good timing,” Jon said at length, a grin still on his face. “I had no idea what she was talking about. Good Lord, I can’t believe the two of _us_ —”

“Have the cheesiest wedding date of the year? Yeah, me neither.”

“Hm . . . I wonder, is it too late to . . .” Jon made a show of glancing back down the street from whence they’d come.

“ _No_ , Jon, we are not annulling our marriage and doing it again tomorrow.”

“Worth a shot,” Jon said to the clouds above.

“Look on the bright side,” Martin said, “we’ll always know when it’s our anniversary.”

“This is true. Well, regardless,” Jon said, grinning wickedly, “Happy Valentine’s Day, husband-mine.”

“Oh, shut _up_.”

They had an early lunch in a little cafe on the main street, and they sat and watched quietly as other people drifted in and out, living their own tiny, frightening, exquisite lives, as well as they could. And for a short hour or so, they sat among them, invisibly ordinary, basking in the beautiful mundanity of it all. At one point, while Jon was in the restroom, Martin bought a novelty mug with a picture of a Highland cow and the words “I Love Moo!” printed on it in a bright red, aggressively curly font. On their way back up to the cabin he presented it to Jon, who rolled his eyes so hard he might have sprained something.

The following morning, of course, Jon was drinking his tea out of it. It was a clear day, and the stack of firewood was getting low, so Martin went to retrieve his gloves. Tugging them on over his hands, careful of his ring, he leaned over Jon and kissed the crown of his head. “Firewood,” he explained. “Be back in a bit.”

“Right,” said Jon. Gently he reached up a hand to wind around Martin’s arm, holding him there a moment. “I love you,” he said, quietly.

The words took a moment to leave Martin’s throat. “Love you, Jon.”

Later, taking a moment to rest between swings, Martin looked up to see Jon watching him from the kitchen window. He waved, and blew Jon a kiss, which was mirthfully returned.

That night there was a heavy snowfall, and when they woke up the world outside the cabin was almost entirely white, and they lay in bed, under a warm, maroon blanket, until well after lunchtime.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope everyone has a lovely Valentine's Day, however you're celebrating. <3


End file.
